


That Only I Remember

by Marguerite



Category: The West Wing
Genre: Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-28
Updated: 2009-03-28
Packaged: 2019-05-30 18:38:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15102629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marguerite/pseuds/Marguerite
Summary: "Whatever the news is, it's unspeakably bad, because Leo's sitting next to me and his hand is on my knee."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A copy of this work was once archived at National Library, a part of the [ West Wing Fanfiction Central](https://fanlore.org/wiki/West_Wing_Fanfiction_Central), a West Wing fanfiction archive. More information about the Open Doors approved archive move can be found in the [announcement post](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/8325).

The United States House of Representatives 4:45 p.m.

 

Six hours into my testimony, and I'm ready to jump out of this chair and climb the walls.

My full name is Joshua Jacob Lyman, and I am the White House Deputy Chief of Staff.

I had no prior knowledge of the President's condition.

I was not in the Oval Office until after the President allegedly collapsed, so I cannot comment on a probable cause.

I was told he had the flu.

I am not a physician.

That would be conjecture on my part.

I had no prior knowledge.

There's an aide slipping a note to Babish. He moves his lips when he reads, and if he weren't so big - and if he weren't the only thing standing between me and certain disaster - I'd probably mock him for it. Babish lets my lawyer read it, then hands the paper over to Congressman Bruno.

My eyes are stinging. My head feels as if it's going to fall off my neck and roll around the floor for a while.

"Mr. Lyman?"

Bruno's talking to the guy next to him while handing the note over to Cliff Calley, who glances at me with those earnest damn eyes and then turns away again to take his seat. What the hell...?

"Mr. Lyman, you are excused, " Bruno says into the microphone. "You're needed in Leo McGarry's office as soon as possible."

This can not be good. "What time should I return tomorrow?"

They're looking at each other, but not at me. My hands are cold.

"We'll let you know when you need to come back for further testimony. Ladies and gentlemen, we're going to take a recess until tomorrow morning at eight."

The gavel makes me jump, and my fight-or-flight response brings me to the edge of a panic attack. Damn, I was getting so much better before all this happened. I get up as if there's nothing weird going on around me, as if my only worry is straightening my tie and smoothing out the wrinkles my suit acquired during eleven hours of sweat and regret.

"What's going on?"

Babish shrugs and adjusts some papers. Why won't he look me in the eye? "Just go to Leo's office. It's something he needs to talk to you about. You won't have to come back here tomorrow. Go."

"You don't have to tell me twice." I stuff folders into my backpack and stretch. My muscles are so tight you could bounce arrows off of me. "Call my office when I have to come back in again."

"I'll do that." For an instant, he looks at me with something other than aggravation, or maybe it's a trick of the fading light.

I shift the backpack around on my shoulder. You'd think that a container made of canvas and nylon should shred or something under this kind of weight. Donna packed sandwiches and decaffeinated sodas, some papers, and possibly a load of bricks. I'm bent over like a little old man, shuffling out of the Senate chamber.

"You think Babish told him?"

I whirl around - almost twice, given that the backpack adds to the swing of my body, but I can't see who said that. Can't ask him what he means. But I don't like the way it sounds.

So, what was it Babish might or might not have told me? What's so bad that Bruno and Calley decided I could go play outside for recess? What went on in the White House today? I know it didn't stop just because I've been giving testimony for endless, grueling hours. I wander through the bullpen. No one's there but a couple of junior aides and they scuttle away, heads down, avoiding eye contact.

Where the hell is Donna? And why won't anyone look at me?

"The bitter taste in your mouth - it's the adrenaline," Kaytha Trask said last Christmas, when I'd foolishly thought things couldn't get any worse. Right now my mouth is flooded with it, a Dead Sea of trepidation.

I say hello to Margaret. She flinches and looks away--Margaret, who's never flinched at or looked away from anything as long as I've known her.

The bitterness is deep in my teeth, like decay.

"Someone sent a note to Babish saying Leo needed to see me, so..." Margaret's face turns white, then pink. "Margaret, what's going on?"

"Just go on in, Josh. Leo's expecting you." She gets up and opens the door, calling to Leo: "He's here." As I go from the anteroom into Leo's office Margaret's hand brushes my shoulder.

Oh, God, I can't breathe.

"Josh." Leo's got his Serious Face on. "Let's sit down for a moment so we can talk, okay?"

I'm babbling. Wheezing. "Leo, just spit it out, whatever it is. Whatever I did, I'll fix it, I promise, but please, please--"

"Josh, let's just sit down. Margaret, would you...?" He pantomimes pouring something into a glass. He thinks I need a drink. No. Oh, no. Margaret nods and heads for the Oval while Leo points to his couch. "Here. Put your stuff down."

My backpack hits the floor with the sick thud of a blow from a blunt instrument. I don't so much sit as perch, wary, feeling the sweat beading on my upper lip and my palms and wondering if it has the same acidic taste that's corroding my mouth. Whatever the news is, it's unspeakably bad, because Leo's sitting beside me and his hand is on my knee.

"I'm sorry to have to tell you this," he begins, and in all my life I've never heard him sound so gentle, "but we got a call from Bethesda Hospital in West Palm Beach. It's your mom, Josh."

I shake my head, not so much in denial but to get the damn sirens out of my ears so that I can hear Leo.

"She had a stroke."

"Ah, Leo, no..." A creeping, familiar numbness takes hold of me. "I gotta get down there. I need to see her. Will they let me go on one of the President's--?"

Leo's eyes are glittering and his hand moves to my forearm. "Josh."

I put up a warning hand, trying to keep his words from coming out, because it won't be real until he says it, I still have one last moment before the earth opens up to swallow me.

But Leo knows what he has to do. "Josh, she's gone."


	2. That Only I Remember

My hands look like hell. Jagged cuticles, the corner of one thumbnail ripped off from trying to open a soda can with it, scars where IVs have been.

I have to say something, do something.

But I can't move. I can't stop looking at my hands. People always said I had Mom's hands.

Leo's weight leaves the sofa and somehow, amidst the sirens and screams in my head, I hear him call for Margaret. I smell the bourbon in the glass Margaret presses into my palm. But I still can't move.

"Should I get him?" Margaret asks, and out of the corner of my eye I see Leo nodding.

Seconds later, there's another pair of hands on my shoulders, and there's a different fragrance in the air - fine wool mixed with a hint of leather and some expensive, unidentifiable men's cologne. That combination belongs to only one man.

"Josh, I am so, so sorry," President Bartlet murmurs.

I try to get up, but the synapses connecting my protocol to my knees refuse to cooperate and I sort of crumple back onto the sofa. "Sir...I..." I can't talk, I just sit with one hand covering my eyes and the other letting some very costly bourbon spill like bittersweet tears.

"It's all right, son, it's all right." The President of the United States is calling me 'son' and taking the glass away, saving Leo's carpet from my shaking hands. He says it again. "It's all right," but it's softer, and he's patting my back.

I want to cry, to expel the acid flooding my body and brain, but not here, not with this man's arm around me. My hands are shaking so badly that I can't even cover my face anymore, so I control my breathing as best I can, will my fingers to be still, and sit up. He's looking at me with concerned, compassionate eyes.

"What can we do for you?"

"I...do?" I curl my fingers into my palms and knock them against each other. "I don't know. I don't...where's Donna?"

Where did that question come from?

He understands the non sequitur. "She's over at your apartment with Sam, packing a bag. We had to book you on commercial air since this is personal business and we have...well, you know about the press peering over our shoulders. Best I could do was to have us buy out First Class so you'll have the section to yourselves."

"Ourselves?"

"Well, Sam and Donna were arguing about who should go with you, so in order to keep the peace I'm sending them both. The First Lady's brother and sister-in-law have a place in Palm Beach. They're out of town, but their staff knows you're coming and they'll be ready when the three of you get there."

"That's...kind of you, sir."

"Well, I always say that if you're going to do something, then you might as well do it right." He smiles and places his hand on my arm. It's just like the night of the Illinois primary, and, oh, God, it's for the same reason.

"I can't go with you myself," he continues, turning away from me to give me a second of privacy. "Some nonsense about running the country, I don't know – but this is the next best thing." He takes in a breath and looks up into my eyes. "Let me do this for you, Josh."

It's hard to remember that, once upon a time, I did not love this man.

I find my voice, grainy and uncertain. "Thank you, sir."

"You'll be leaving in an hour or so - the flight's at eight. I hope you don't mind, but Leo took the liberty of calling your mom's lawyer back in New Haven, and he told us your mother made very specific arrangements. You don't have to worry about anything."

"Good. That's...good." I rub my eyes but it feels worse.

Leo joins us, sitting on the small chair next to the sofa. "The President told you about the house, I take it?" he asks. "You'll want to stay with Sam and Donna there - I mean, you wouldn't want to stay at your mom's, right?"

"Yeah. Thanks." I'm exhaling and talking at the same time. There's a fist around my heart, squeezing, and I try to remember to breathe deeply so the panic will dissipate. "Oh, man, the condo. She just moved there last year. I'll have to, I dunno, sell it, or something...I can't think about that right now."

"Of course you can't," the President murmurs. "Tell you what - I'm going to ask the First Lady to come down and have a few words with you, is that okay?"

He's sending a watchdog. Oh my God, this is what he thinks of me.

"Sir, I'm not going to..." I draw a nervous pattern in the air.

"I know that. But I'd like for her to have a look at you." He gets up and pats Leo on the arm. "We'll be back in a few minutes. Oh, and Toby's waiting outside, if you're up to seeing him."

"Yeah, that's fine, that's good." I lean back, making a bigger mess out of my hair by running both hands through it.

Toby, master of the written word, is appallingly inept at interpersonal communication. He walks over to me but he's looking at his shoes while his face registers a variety of uncomfortable emotions. "I'm so very sorry for your loss, Josh." I've seen Toby look like this before, when he came to see me in the ICU. For all his bluster and prickliness, he has the softest heart of any man I've ever known.

"Thanks," I manage to reply.

Toby takes a black satin ribbon out of his pocket. I must look as bewildered as I feel, because he says, "It's one of Ginger's hair ribbons. It was the only thing we could come up with."

"Did you at least, you know, ask her?" I'm forcing a smile and Toby smiles back.

"No, Josh, I stole it from her very head and hoped she wouldn't notice. Actually, I told her what I needed and she made me take it. Wouldn't let me have a minute's peace until I brought it to you. She says...well, you know."

I imagine she gave him that wet-eyed, drowning kitten look that Toby claims makes him want to strangle her. Toby grimaces as he tugs hard enough to rip the satin into a small, jagged strip, and he puts the raw ends into my buttonhole, above my heart. His hand rests there for a long time, and he looks at me with those fierce dark eyes as if he can see into my soul.

"May the father of peace send peace to all who mourn, and comfort all the bereaved among us," Toby murmurs, and we say "Amen" together.

Bereaved. I'm bereaved. I press my lips together hard, hoping to keep the tears at bay. One betrays me, skidding down my cheek to the corner of my mouth, and I lick it away. The salt feels hot and comforting.

"I appreciate this, Toby."

"You're welcome. I hope you don't mind, but I sent a list with Donna and Sam of things you should have with you - I didn't know if your family was...is...was..." Toby stumbles over the tense, rubbing his forehead with his fingertips as he shifts from foot to foot. "I didn't know if you're observant. If you needed a yarmulke, or some shoes that aren't leather."

"We re-reformed the Reformers, Toby." That hadn't always been the case, but in the years after Joanie's death our faith had been shaken. Eventually it had crumbled, as had our house and our hopes, into ash. I finger the ribbon. It's surprisingly soft. "We're sort of...cultural Jews. This is even more than they'd expect me to do. But thanks for asking."

"Okay, then." He takes a step backward, and I realize how close he had been standing and how much strength I'd been drawing from that nearness. "So. Call us if you need anything. Or...just call us. We'll be around."

"Yeah." I lower my head so I don't have to watch Toby leave, his shoulders slumped. He says something to someone in the Oval on his way through there. I look up just in time to see Abigail Bartlet standing in the doorway, her arms extended.

"Oh, Josh, this is just awful," she says, beckoning me toward her. She has to stand on tiptoe to put her arms around my neck but she hugs me, then pulls back and pats my cheek. Her tone becomes brisk and professional. "Jed's going nuts, he's so worried, so I told him I'd take a look at you. Give me your hand." She puts her forefinger on the pulse point at my wrist, nodding as she looks at her watch. "Your heartbeat is a little fast, but that's probably the shock. How's your chest? Does it feel tight?"

"A...a little." I blink at her. "Ma'am..."

"We're off the clock, Josh. It's Abbey."

I can't seem to call her that, so I avoid calling her anything. "This isn't really necessary, I'm fine." I have to choke off the "ma'am" that wants to spill out of me.

"If you feel panicky or you're having trouble breathing, then I can write you--"

"I'm going to be okay. But thanks."

"Let's sit down for a minute." She motions to Leo's couch and takes a seat at my side. "I talked to Dr. Armand Ballantine at Bethesda - he was on call when your mother was brought in. From what he told me, it seems that your mother had a stroke at home while a neighbor was visiting. The neighbor called 911, she did everything right, but there was too much damage and your mother slipped away peacefully. Dr. Ballantine wanted me to stress that to you; she didn't suffer. She probably had no idea what happened to her, it was that fast and it was that painless."

That fast and that painless, and she's gone. Mama.

"I know that doesn't mean much to you right this minute, Josh," Abbey continues, stroking the back of my head and leaning close so that I don't have to meet her eyes, "but eventually you'll take comfort in that."

"I know. They said that about my dad, too." And they had. "You know, those were the first words Mom said when I made the phone call from Chicago: 'Your father didn't suffer, thank God.' I can hear her voice. I can hear it, in my right ear just like that night, but she's gone, she's never speaking to me again, she's gone." I clear my throat. I can't let the First Lady watch me break down. I conjure up a weak smile. "I'm actually okay, you know."

She sees right through me. "I'm not a Congressman - don't try and bullshit me. It's been rough for you. Your father, then the shooting, then these damn hearings, and now this. It's normal for you to feel like your edges are a little blurry. Take as much time as you need. Don't try and rush through this, Josh."

"Thank you, ma'am."

She shakes her head. "Abbey. But you know what? Your mother trained you well. You gave her so many reasons to be proud." She stands up and motions toward the door. "I'm going upstairs to talk to my husband. Will you be okay for a few minutes, or should I send someone in?"

"I think...I think I'd like to be alone, if Leo doesn't mind giving up his office for a few minutes."

"I understand. Be careful on the trip, Josh. Don't overdo it."

"I won't. Donna and Sam will be with me."

Abbey smiles. "Good. They'll keep you in line. You'll be in our prayers, Josh." With that, she closes the door behind her and leaves me alone in Leo's office. 

My legs shake when I get up to walk around the room. The light feels like an assault on my burning eyes. I flip switches until the only illumination is the waning daylight. Then I stagger back to Leo's couch and collapse into a protective ball.

Mom.

Dad.

Joanie.

"Josh?"

It's CJ's voice this time, and I yank my heavy body upright, groaning, grousing.  
"It's like Grand Central Station in here," I complain even as I scoot over so she can sit next to me.

But she doesn't. She leans halfway in the room with her hand on the doorjamb. "I can come back."

"Nah, come on in. It's fine." I pat the place at my side and she joins me. Her face is drawn, her eyes shimmering with sympathetic tears. I need her, need the strength and compassion and wit that makes her the backbone of our staff, and when she opens her arms to me I go into them gratefully. I need the sharp edge of her collarbone against my cheek and she senses this as she holds me close and strokes my hair with her strong, capable fingers.

"I don't know what to say," she whispers against my temple.

"There's nothing to say, really. I'm just glad you're here. I have to go in a little while, whenever Donna and Sam get back from my apartment."

"I wish I could go, too. But they're calling me to the Hill in your place, starting tomorrow, and as much as I'd love to blow them off--"

"Blow them off or tell them to--"

"Josh!" CJ chuckles. She squeezes me tighter and for the first time since Leo dropped the bombshell I don't have the terrifying sensation that I'm about to fly apart. "Sam's got a statement for me to read to the press. He's pretty shaken up, Josh, I gotta tell you. He and Donna, between the two of them, may be operating on one shared brain cell."

"That's one more than I've got, so I'm happy to have them along."

"Carol said they phoned and they're on their way back. There'll be a car and driver waiting for you at the entrance. No press. No one's going to know what's going on until after you're airborne."

"I appreciate that." I rub my eyes, but it just spreads the intolerable itchiness around. "Onerato and Bruno will find some way to include this in his list of the administration's many transgressions."

"That's why you're on Delta instead of--"

"Hold on a second, CJ. I just thought of something." I look at her, my head cocked to one side. "Who's paying for this?"

"Josh, that's not--"

"I mean it, CJ. If this isn't government business, then who pulled out a credit card--"

"I'm not at liberty to divulge that information," she says, giving me her best ‘face of the administration’ expression.

"Ah, come on, you can't pull that press secretary crap with me!"

"You just saw me do it, Joshua."

"You're playing hardball."

"And you love me for it." She smiles down at me, holding my face in her hands.  
"Day or night, Josh, I'm here for you."

And it's gone, the momentary lightheartedness of our banter, gone under a wave  
of sorrow. I find myself swiping tears away with the back of my hand. "Dammit."

"It's okay. No cameras here."

"I think you're wearing a wire. I think I should search you."

"In your wildest dreams." She turns to sit shoulder-to-shoulder with me. Our arms touch, and CJ puts her hand over mine.

"I know you've got stuff to do, so..." I say, sounding hopelessly needy.

"Babish wants my lawyer to run me through a few more hoops before the Circus Maximus tomorrow. Nothing I'm not very, very willing to delay."

"Kick their asses, would you?" I run my thumb back and forth over her hand, relishing the softness.

"With the greatest of pleasure. Hey, look who's back."

Sam and Donna stand in the doorway to Margaret's office, looking for all the world like a pair of startled deer. I lift my chin. "It's okay, come on in."

Donna enters first, after Sam gives her a guiding push at the small of her back. She navigates Leo's office with small, hesitant steps. Her quavering smile is about to shatter my heart, and with CJ's help I get up to fold her in my arms. Her hair, which is soft and slightly damp against my cheek, smells like rain. "Don't cry," I whisper, surprised to be saying that to her. "Donna. Really. It's going to be okay."

"I'm sorry. I thought I was all cried out," she sniffles, taking a handkerchief out of her pocket and wiping her nose with it. Sam's initials are on the Irish linen square. I smile at him over Donna's shoulder.

"You're always prepared, Sam."

"Not for this, though," he whispers, looking at me with sorrowful eyes. "God, Josh, I don't know what to say. She was a terrific lady."

"I know." My facial muscles, stiff from trying to smile, finally give out, and I hide my face in Donna's hair for a moment. Please, don't let me cry, don't let me cry...

Her arms tighten around me, supporting me with their surprising strength, and the gnawing, aching grief snaps my control in two.

I'm surrounded, by Donna, Sam, and CJ, then by Leo and Margaret, who come hurrying back into the office at my first sob. Comforting hands, soft voices, but none of them is my mother, my last link to a family. The last of my family, lying cold and still in a Florida funeral home.

"Josh," Leo says in a raspy voice that reminds me that other people mourn the loss of Marjorie Lyman, "it's time to go. The car's waiting and we can only hold the press off for so long."

"Okay. I'm fine, I'm...fine." I wave them all off, even Donna, trying to give them a brave, reassuring smile, but from the looks of utter desolation on their faces I know it's a failure. "Thank you for everything you're doing, Leo," I struggle to whisper.

"Get going or you'll miss your flight. And don't strain yourself."

Surely I should say something else. But opening my mouth brings me perilously close to fresh tears, so I just nod at them all as I let Sam lead me into the hallway.

Several dress Marines gather at the door, helping us into the waiting limo. Donna shares my seat, with Sam sitting opposite.

"We don't need sirens, right?" I ask the driver in what I hope is a controlled tone of voice, and the driver shakes his head.

"Not for this. We're traveling under the radar - the President was very clear that he doesn't want you tailed by the press. Just try to relax as much as possible and we'll be at National as soon as we can."

No one says anything for the first few minutes. Finally, Donna turns to me and asks, "What's the ribbon for?"

"Rending our garments, only we use ribbon instead of tearing up our actual clothes - it's part of the mourning ritual. Nothing you need to worry about, Donna. Or you, Sam."

"Toby said that the best thing we can do is to stand back and try not to be so conspicuously Protestant," Sam says with a small, rueful grin at last breaking up the sadness of his expression. "I think we could pass for Jewish, don't you?"

The sudden image of Sam wearing a yarmulke, and Donna standing a head taller - and a blonde head, at that - than the little old ladies of Palm Beach, makes me grin. "Not a chance."

Donna pouts a little and Sam shakes his head. "Toby told me the same thing, actually," he says in that mild, slow pattern he uses when he wants to say three hundred things but is settling for one instead. "I just wish there was something more helpful we could do than just stand back and be, you know, a couple of WASPs."

"You're doing everything I could possibly hope for. More than I deserve."

"We're your friends, Josh." Sam sounds astonished that I would accept any limitations on his friendship. Ah, Sam.

"I know that. I...know that." My voice cracks and I run my hand through my hair again and again until Donna stills me by wrapping her fingers around my wrist. I press my lips together and squeeze my eyes closed as if to seal in the tears, staying silent until the driver enters the airport, presenting all sorts of paperwork to someone who leads us straight out to the tarmac.

"Mr. McGarry arranged it so you'll using the pilots' entrance," the driver says as if this is an everyday occurrence. "They've got the rest of the passengers on board, so you don't have to worry about cameras or questions."

Leo's thoroughness is no surprise. I blink at Sam as we get out of the car. "Leo arranged this, huh?"

"Well, Margaret did. 'In Loco Leo.' The President said for him to take every measure necessary to ensure your privacy and comfort, Josh." Sam pats me on the back, guiding Donna with a hand on her elbow.

Two baggage handlers are taking our things out of the car. Usually I carry a laptop on the plane. Under ordinary circumstances Donna would have a satchel full of magazines and file folders, and Sam would be sporting some thick, leather-bound tome on a noble subject only he or the President could possibly care about. But tonight we go on board with empty hands.


	3. That Only I Remember

Donna and Sam sit across the aisle from me so I can stretch out and close my eyes. I zone out for most of the flight, napping at odd intervals, and awaken at the flight attendant's voice asking me to sit up and fasten my seat belt. "I'm sorry, Mr. Lyman, but we're about to land."

"Yeah. Yeah, thanks." I smooth down my hair and turn to see that Sam is twisted across both seats, his hands buried in the cushions. "Hey, we're landing." 

"I know. I'm looking for the other half of the seat belt." He frowns, his forehead crinkling, and he indicates two identical pieces of hardware. "I always do this, I always get two buckles or two latches instead of one of each."

Donna gets up from behind him and scrabbles around between the seats. "There. Buckle up." She grins at Sam and he gives her a dismissive wave. She takes the vacant seat next to me and fastens her seat belt. "You slept?"

"Yeah. I'm more tired than I thought."

"Leo arranged for a driver to pick us up. We'll be at the house before too long. Don't worry about anything."

"Should I call my mom's lawyer? Decide what to do tomorrow?"

"Nope, we have you covered. The driver's going to come back for us around nine-thirty. There's a memorial service at ten, and then people are coming over to your mom's from noon to about two. Margaret called a moving company to arrange for boxes and stuff so you can start packing, and your mother's lawyer is flying in to talk to you about the specifics."

There's this twitching in my left eye. I squint, hoping it'll go away, but no such luck. We're descending now, almost as fast as my heart is plummeting, and Donna suddenly hands me a stick of gum.

It's not my ears, it's my soul that's popping, but I take the gum anyway and put it in my mouth. "I'm not sure how much of that legal stuff I'm going to be able to listen to, Sam," I tell him as spearmint washes away the bile.

"I figured I'd just talk to the guy myself. If you don't mind me acting in the capacity of your lawyer."

To cover up the latest surge of emotion, I raise my eyebrows at him and smirk. "Like I can afford you. You billed out at...?"

"Five hundred an hour." His grin is sheepish as he listens to Donna's gasp. "I'll take it out in trade. Nice house by the beach, some seafood." He looks down at his hands as he traces the pattern of the seat cushion. "Chance to help a friend."

That's Sam, measuring his worth in good deeds. Donna pats him on the arm, lightly, smoothing the wrinkles out of his shirt.

We touch down, bouncing once or twice before the ride smooths out as much as the cotton of Sam's sleeve. I keep my head down as we brave the crowds.

A guy holds up a sign with Donna's name on it - smart of Leo, because someone might recognize Seaborn or Lyman. The name tag gives the title of his company and his first name, which is Dave. Dave the Driver doesn't talk much, just shakes hands and mumbles something like "My condolences" while we go to pick up our bags.

***

It's dark outside as we zoom along I-95. Even when we're driving next to the beach on the A-1-A, we can't see anything. I stare into the night sky, remembering something from my childhood. I used to look up and imagine that one of the stars was Joanie, spreading light to me the way she'd done when she brought a nightlight into my room to keep me from being afraid.

I must've told Sam the story one drunken night, or else it's one of the fanciful notions he's picked up over the years, because he nods at me and smiles up at the velvety blackness overhead. Of course, knowing Sam, he's probably just trying to hold back a dissertation about astronomy.

Donna looks out the window, gaping a little as we pull into the electronically-fenced entrance of a faux Spanish villa overlooking the ocean. She's been trained well enough not to say anything, but she still shudders a little as we park in the circular driveway and two servants greet us. "You'll be fine," I assure her, and she suddenly becomes graceful and elegant, drawing herself to her full height when one of the servants hands her out of the car.

We're met in the foyer by a middle-aged woman in a dark dress and white apron. "Mr. Lyman, I'm Rosemary Watson - I'm the Barrington family's housekeeper, and they've asked me to look after you."

Sometimes we all forget that the First Lady had a prior identity. Tom Barrington is her brother, a plastic surgeon, and his wife, Virginia, is a pediatrician. They've been to the White House and I remember them as bright, witty, caring people. Tom offered to "revise" my scar, but I'm not in any hurry to have someone point a knife at me again.

"Sam Seaborn." Sam introduces himself, shaking Rosemary's hand and nodding toward Donna. "This is Donna Moss, Josh's assistant."

"Pleased to meet you." The women shake hands and Donna relaxes a little. "The Barringtons asked me to extend their sympathies. They also wanted you to know that their house and staff are entirely at your disposal for however long you are able to stay."

"That's very kind," I murmur. "We'll only be here a couple of days at the most."

"Take as much time as you like," Rosemary says, smiling. "There's a car you're welcome to use, and any of us on the staff would be happy to give directions if you want to get away for a bit. Now, your mother's place, the Dorchester, is just a few miles south of here on Ocean Parkway."

"Yeah, I was here at Thanksgiving - I think I can remember how to get there." Suddenly I feel my legs becoming shaky. Sam exchanges a glance with Rosemary, who smiles again and indicates the stairs to the second floor.

"But of course you're all exhausted. I've got your rooms all ready for you and your bags should be in them by now. I'll show you upstairs."

We follow her up a curving flight of stairs. "This is the guest hall. Ms. Moss and Mr. Seaborn, you're on this side, and Mr. Lyman, you're in the main guest room." She opens the door to show me a spacious room with a huge bed, a desk, bookcases, and a muted television tuned to CNN. "It has a view of the ocean, but of course you won't be able to see it until morning. There's a little patio through the glass doors, and if you like, I can arrange for you to have breakfast there so you can have some fresh air and privacy."

"Before the funeral" is what she doesn't say. The absence of the words, kindly intentioned though it may have been, stings more sharply than even I could have imagined.

"Thanks." I turn to Sam and Donna as Rosemary makes a discreet exit. "You want to get settled?"

"We can do that in a few minutes." Sam leans over so that he can see the television. CJ's on camera. In the early, heady days of the administration, we always stopped whatever we were doing to watch her in front of the curtain, then at some point we decided it was geeky to be all that amazed and we learned to multitask while she briefed the press.

Sam turns up the volume. CJ looks into the camera as she says: "Deputy Chief of Staff Joshua Lyman has been temporarily excused from the hearing following the sudden passing of his mother earlier today. The President, Vice-President, White House staff - and, I'm certain, the press corps - extend their deepest sympathies to Josh at this sad occasion." She gazes straight into the camera for a moment and even though this was taped earlier, I still have the strange yet comforting feeling that she's communicating with me. She takes a question.  
"Katie."

"Is it true that Sam Seaborn went along with Josh Lyman, and if so, for what official purpose?"

"Yes, Sam Seaborn is with Josh, but not for an official purpose - they've known one another for many years and he's going as a friend, not as a member of the White House Staff. Donnatella Moss, Josh's assistant, is traveling with them, and I'm sure she has her hands full." A few reporters chuckle. "And to head off your next question, the trip is on commercial air and was paid for by private funds, and the three of them will be staying in a private residence."

"Good for her," Sam murmurs.

"I can't believe anyone would bring something like that up at a time like this." Donna's voice is high-pitched and indignant.

"It's their job, Donna," Sam tells her, swiping a weary hand across his forehead.

"Yeah, well, they can take their job and--" She shakes her head as she cuts off her words. "We should all unpack," she says, changing the subject with a slight yawn in my direction. "I'll come back and check on you before I go to sleep, okay?"

"That's not really necessary."

"It is necessary - for me. It'll keep me from having to answer the phone in the middle of the night when you can't find your bathrobe." She tosses her banter at me, and I want to catch it, but I'm way off my game.

"I'm good. Thanks." I usher them to the door. They turn around to look at me so I give them as good a smile as I can muster. "Night, guys. And thank you for coming with me."

"Goodnight, Josh," they say almost in unison. Moments after I close the door I hear two doors across the hall open and then shut, and we're separated. I'm alone.

I'm alone. Really alone, no connection to anyone, anywhere, and the feeling of freefall is like emotional vertigo. Cold, a horrible, painful chill, creeps through my veins and I have to sit down because my legs don't work anymore. I collapse onto the bed, shuddering, hoping I'm not going to cry, but there's no chance of that. Tears come. I hate crying, but this time it feels good, the wet heat warming my face. My chest aches as sobs follow, ripping their way free.

There's a stirring out in the hall, doors opening, susurrence, one deep voice and one light one. Over the pounding of my heart I hear a knock on my door and the slight creak of the hinges.

"I'm okay," I mutter to whoever is there before opening my stinging eyes.

It's Sam. He stands in the doorway, tie gone, shirt collar open, sleeves rolled up, rumpled and sad and aching in his own way. "Josh," he whispers.

"I'm okay," I repeat, but this time it's an airless, stifled gasp. "I...need to...can't..."

I need to spill the salt water that contains my DNA and my father's, and my mother's. But I can't allow myself to cry in front of Sam, for all that he's my closest friend.

He nods, his stance a little defeated, his solemn eyes at half-mast. I stand up, hunching over the roiling pain in my stomach, and incline my head toward him. I can't look into his eyes, can't bear the compassion and concern I'd surely find there.

Sam closes the gap between us with hesitant, uncertain steps, then opens his arms to me. His embrace is strong. He holds me up as I lean into him, feeling and smelling the starch in his crisp shirt, and he pats my back in a slow, steady rhythm. "Do you want me to get Donna for you?"

The stubble on my face rasps against Sam's shirt as I shake my head. "It's not...I just can't do this in front of either of you," I manage to whisper. "I think I have to be alone tonight."

"I know." He pulls away, his hands on my upper arms, looking me in the eye. "Although, if you change your mind, I'm here. Well, I'm not here, I'm across the hall, but you know that."

"I know that." I clear my tear-clogged throat. "I know that," I say again, softer, as I take a step backward and break the connection between us.

He doesn't say anything else, just gives me a sad smile as he heads for the door. I lift my chin at him, waiting until he is gone before taking out the manila envelope I've never opened.

It's not her will, which I haven't seen since she updated it, but a copy of Mom's last wishes. It's pretty straightforward, in the legalese she picked up in all her years as an attorney's wife. Like my father, she's willed her body to science and her remains will be cremated and sent to me at some point along the way, to be placed beside Dad's in the little columbarium we had built next to Joanie's grave.

There's room for me, too. I've seen the plot. I just...

Dammit. Here it comes. I set down the envelope and collapse into bed, fully clothed, and for the first time since I was a little boy, I actually cry myself to sleep.

***

I'm still fully clothed when unwelcome daylight wakes me. Falling asleep in my clothes happens more often than not these days, and even opening my eyes to broad daylight would've escaped my notice except that there's a lot of it, too much for my apartment, and it's coming from the wrong side of the bed.

I turn over, gazing blearily at the alarm clock. From somewhere close by I get a whiff of fresh-cooked eggs. And ripe strawberries. There's no mistaking that aroma--I woke up to it enough times in my childhood...

And in one sudden, horrible moment, I remember why I'm in this big bed and what's going to be happening in the next few days. Oh, God, it hurts, and only the fear of being late to my mother's memorial service keeps me from losing it right then and there.

I drag myself out of bed and fish around for my bathrobe. I'd rather be boiled in oil than call for Donna, so I keep digging until it turns up, then head for the shower. Being clean helps, I think, as I lather myself a couple of times to wash away the day-old sweat from the hearing. Hard to believe that, just yesterday, the hearing was my biggest worry. Shows you how much your life can change in just a matter of hours.

I slump against the shower wall for a few minutes, breathing through my mouth, until the panicked sensation passes. By the time I get into my clothes, I hear a light rapping on the door, and Donna's voice.

"You decent?"

"Nope."

"Good, then we're coming in." She and Sam enter together. Sam looks a little anxious and he's fiddling with the knot in his charcoal tie. His suit is almost the same color of gray as Donna's dress. She's got some sort of black shawl thing around her shoulders. The darkness just emphasizes the circles under her eyes.

"Did you sleep?" Sam asked, checking me out from head to toe.

"Yeah, actually. I kinda dropped off and I'm pretty sure I slept through the night."

Donna's gone to the balcony and opened the doors. Sure enough, there's ocean to be seen, and a light, salty breeze comes into the room. "They left your breakfast on a tray outside."

"You guys ate already?" I look at my watch as Sam goes out to retrieve the tray and then brings it out to the balcony.

"Well, I was up early. Just in case you couldn't find your bathrobe."

"Voila." I point to the bathroom door, where the robe is hanging up to dry. "I'm not a complete basket case, Donna."

"I never thought you were." She usually swipes something off my plate when I'm eating, especially if she doesn't have food of her own, but today she just sits with her legs demurely crossed at the ankle and watches seagulls dive into the foam.

I butter a piece of toast and hand it to her. She starts to cry.

Sam moves from his perch on the balcony railing to crouch beside her and put her head down on his shoulder. At least he can comfort someone. It's something he needs to be able to do.

"Did you want marmalade instead?" I ask, cocking my head to one side, and Donna laughs through her tears.

"I'm so sorry, Josh. I don't know what came over me." She does that weird thing women do with their fingers when they want to dry tears without smearing their makeup. "It just sneaks up on me once in a while, when I least expect it. I need to fix my face, okay?"

Before I can say anything she's gone. Sam looks at her empty chair, then at me. His face is a giant question mark as he waits for me to enlighten him.

"Donna's mother died when she was in college. Not long after that, Donna took up with Seth - that schmuck who let her drop out to pay his way through med school and then dumped her because she wasn't educated."

"Wow. I didn't know that." Sam sits opposite me and munches slowly on the piece of toast that had started the episode. "It explains a lot about her." He reaches for another piece of toast.

"Feel free to, you know, consume my entire breakfast."

He's not deterred. "Donna's a very compassionate person. And I think you're going to need that in the next few days."

I want to tell him that he's no slouch in that department, but before I can work up the nerve his cell phone rings. With an irritated groan he reaches in his pocket. "Sam Seaborn." He covers the receiver for a moment. "It's Toby," he tells me. "What? When? Okay, calm down - wow, you really shouldn't use that word over an unsecured phone line...yeah. Okay. I'll look. I'll tell him."

"Tell me what?" I ask around a mouthful of strawberries as Sam hangs up and slams the phone back into his pocket.

"That he's...thinking about you."

"Sam."

"Yeah."

"I may have a bad poker face, but you're the worst damn liar on the face of the earth." I get up and head for the television. "I take it something's in the news cycle that we wish would go away."

"Josh, yeah, there's something. And I need you not to get crazy, okay?"

I snort as I turn on CNN, fumbling with the remote to get the sound on. It doesn't work, so I start punching buttons on the television. Donna enters at the same time and stands next to me as the three of us watch whatever this is unfolding. At first it doesn't look like much - a freight train derailment that didn't injure anyone seems to be the lead story, so I turn my attention away from the picture to look at the bewildering array of control buttons.

Donna points to the screen. "What's he going on about? And why's there a picture of Mrs. Landingham?"

Finally I get the sound working in time to hear the voice of Congressman Schuller from Indiana, someone even the Bartlet-haters think has gone way over the edge since the M.S. disclosure. "I think an investigation is called for," he's saying into a hand-held microphone someone has thrust in his face. "I think that the deaths of two people close to upper-level figures in this scandal is probably not coincidental. That they occurred in such a short span of time may well indicate that the administration will do whatever it takes to cover its tracks."

Sam slaps the power button with so much force that the entire entertainment unit rattles. I push his hand aside and turn the television back on.

"Josh, don't..."

"I wanna hear what this asshole has to say."

They're on CJ now, and I can tell by the space between the White House emblem and her head that she's tired enough to have taken off her shoes. Her glasses are a little askew. "We've just heard about the Congressman's remarks and we are prepared to make this statement."

The camera pans to show Toby standing next to Carol, glowering. He looks as if he'd be happy to eat any reporter who makes a comment right now.

CJ continues. "The groundless accusation implicit in Congressman Schuller's remarks is not only without merit but also completely inappropriate at this time of sorrow and loss - or, for that matter, at any other time. As a United States citizen protected by the First Amendment, the Congressman is free to make whatever speeches he wants - up until his comments become slanderous, at which point the White House Counsel will take any and all necessary steps to force him to cease and desist. In the meantime, we will not dignify this horrendous breach of common decency with a response."

With that, CJ stalks off the podium. The room is eerily silent. Not one reporter has asked for clarification.

"I think that about wraps it up," Sam says, his voice gentler than his words, and he waits for me to nod before turning the television back off.

"I bet Toby's having a conniption fit right about now." I inhale through my mouth. "You should really be there with him, Sam."

"Nah. I'd only restrain him. This way we get some entertainment on the road and some stories for when we get back." He gives Donna a little smile, but she's determined to be angry.

"That's so sick," Donna murmurs. "What kind of person could think something like that?"

"The kind of person who hates everything we stand for. Everything we've worked for." Sam's eyes flash the way he does when he's well and truly wound up about something. "Toby says they're taking care of it, and not to worry." 

"The President must be...wow, I can't imagine the level of fury." I shake my head.

"I don't want you to worry about it, Josh," Sam reiterates.

Rosemary turns up at the door, which Donna has left open. "I'm terribly sorry to intrude, but if you're going to get there in time, then..."

I put my hand on Sam's shoulder for a moment.

"I think I have enough to worry about already."


	4. That Only I Remember

Dave the driver helps Donna into the car. Sam and I slide in on either side of her. We have almost nothing to say as we ride. I keep my head turned to the right, looking at the people walking along the waterway, people who aren't on their way to a funeral. I don't want to see my mom's building when we pass it.

"Where are we going?" I ask, mostly to break the silence.

"Temple B'nai Israel in Boynton," Dave tells us. "It's about fifteen minutes from here."

"Thanks."

"Hey," Sam says in the tone that warns us in advance that he's about to spout off something trivial, "did you guys know that there's no beach in Boynton Beach?"

"In my defense, I really did know that."

"I didn't," Donna says, looking out the window as we pass the headquarters of one of the tabloids that's been giving the administration fits from day one. "Yuck. There goes the neighborhood." She gives herself a little shake, then glances over at me. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to be flippant."

"I don't mind. Keeps me from thinking too much." I actually feel a little better now - sad, of course, but this morning's panic is gone, replaced by something heavier but more stable. Donna clasps my hand for a few moments. So soft, so warm, and it lifts a little of the burden from my heart.

We drive past subdivisions with matching houses and perfect lawns, past a manmade lake, past an enormous assisted living facility that looks nicer than any place I've ever lived. Eventually we make our way down a wide street and I see the synagogue just a few blocks away.

I start to shudder.

Sam slips his arm around my shoulders. "You're okay, Josh. You're going to be okay."

I'm on my way to my mother's funeral. I'm wearing my good suit, and my shoes are polished, and my hair's combed, and I'm going to my mother's funeral. That's just wrong. Just...wrong.

We pull up to the entrance, where a dark-suited man wearing a white prayer shawl meets us. He's young for a rabbi, younger than Sam, with slightly curling sandy hair and dark brown eyes.

"I'm Reuben Kessler - you must be Joshua." He extends his hand to me and I shake it. He holds on to me for an extra few seconds. "Your mother talked about you all the time. I'm really going to miss her."

"But not the conversations about 'my son, the Deputy Chief of Staff.'"

He laughs, making Sam and Donna smile as they emerge from the other side of the car. "You even sound like her. I didn't know her very long, but she made a deep impression on me - on everyone she met." The rabbi looks over at my companions. "I recognize you from 'Capitol Beat' - Mr. Seaborn, right?"

"Sam. How do you do?" Sam shakes hands with the rabbi, then with the manners that make most of the women in the White House weak in the knees, he brings Donna forward for an introduction. "Rabbi Kessler, I'd like you to meet Donna Moss, Josh's assistant."

"I recognize your face, as well," the rabbi says as he shakes Donna's hand.

She looks perplexed. "How?"

"Marjorie showed me photos. There's one of you standing over Josh's desk and it looks as if you're scolding him."

"Typical day at the office," I smirk at Donna, who grins for a moment before lowering her head.

The gesture brings us all back to why we're really here. "Why don't we step into my office?" Rabbi Kessler asks, his voice low and kind. We go inside and he opens the door for us. Three chairs are perfectly placed in front of his desk - which is a good deal cleaner than mine - and we sit, with me in the middle.

"This is going to be a very short service, as your mother requested. Just a few words about her, and then the Kaddish since there's no interment today. We have a transliteration available, of course," he says to Sam and Donna.

I'll need it, too, but I don't want to share that information.

Rabbi Kessler folds his hands. "I didn't know if you wanted to speak. It's not required, but if you're up to it, it'd be something her friends would appreciate."

It actually hadn't occurred to me that I'd be expected to get up and talk about my mother. I look over at Sam, and I must have panic written all over my face because he reaches into his pocket for the little notebook that he carries with him every waking moment.

"I, uh, wrote some stuff down," he says softly. "Just in case."

He hands me the notebook and I look at his words. They're in his neat handwriting, nothing crossed out, not a sign that anything changed from the first moment he began to write.

"You amaze me. I can't make out a grocery list without half a quart of white-out."

He shrugs, uncomfortable with praise. "I woke up early. I wanted to help."

You do, I wanted to say. You do help. But nothing came out of my mouth. Rabbi Kessler smiled at all of us. "Josh, why don't you get some water before we begin? Sam, Donna, I'll have my secretary show you to where Josh will be sitting." He spirits them away from me, leaving me alone with my thoughts for a few minutes.

I peruse Sam's notes again. It's a simple little eulogy, nothing flowery, starting with something I told him just a few months ago. It's just so...Sam. I'd know his writing anywhere, can tell after three sentences whether the President's remarks were written by Sam or by Toby. And here, in a few magic strokes of his pen, he's drawn a word-picture of my mother so vivid, so frank, that it's as if she's in the room with me now.

After a few minutes, a pale woman with horn-rimmed glasses knocks and sticks her head around the door. "Mr. Lyman? It's time."

Mama. Mama.

I blink and nod, then follow her into the hall. I stand just outside the doors to the sanctuary and Rabbi Kessler pats my arm. "It's going to be all right, Josh."

I take the black yarmulke he offers and put it on my head. When men go bald from the back, it covers the loss, but it doesn't do anything for mine. And it feels heavy. I haven't worn one since we did this for my father.

My father. My mother. Joanie. Gone.

I'm breathing through my mouth, heart pounding, palms dripping. Trust me to get flop sweat at my mother's funeral. I find Donna's bright hair and walk toward it, using it as a beacon, trying not to meet the eyes of the dozens of people who turn around to look at me. A few hands reach out and pat my arm, murmured condolences surrounding me like vapor. Finally I reach the front pew and slip in beside Donna.

The rabbi walks up to the pulpit and the congregation hushes. Without preamble he begins to talk. "Marjorie loved things that were simple and honest, heartfelt and helpful. For that reason, we come together in her memory and offer our sympathies to her son, Joshua. When I first met Marjorie, she let me know in no uncertain terms who her son was - and from the smiles on your faces, I'm sure she did the same when she met each of you. It was not out of hubris or self-aggrandization, but out of genuine pride in his accomplishments, that she put her son's name before her own."

Something catches in my throat. I swallow, but it only grows bigger.

"Marjorie put the needs of other people before her own, as well. The countless hours she spent at the library, working with underprivileged teenagers who struggled with their schoolwork, took away from the time she longed to spend among the plants on her balcony, but tutoring was her true love. 'These are the real flowers,' she told me more than once when she spoke of her pupils."

I hear a couple of choking sobs. When I turn my head, I see several teenaged girls holding hands as tears stream down their faces.

"Marjorie's love extended to everyone who followed the precepts of Judaism, no matter their faith. To her, a righteous person was a righteous person, to be loved and respected and emulated, to be guided and protected and cherished. None more so than her son, Joshua, who will now say a few words about his mother."

My feet don't want to come off the carpet. I have to make mental and physical note of each step, each movement, until finally I'm standing next to the rabbi. He steps back and sits in one of the tapestried chairs, and I'm once again in front of a microphone.

I take Sam's notebook out of my pocket and set it down in front of me. My throat is dry and my eyes are wet, wet enough to blur the faces of all these people who came to say goodbye.

"These aren't really my words," I begin, throwing caution to the wind by ad-libbing. "I mean, it's what I wish I could say if I could put words together the way Sam Seaborn does." Sam ducks his head and Donna pats his arm. "He's one of the President's speechwriters, and he wrote this out for me, so it's kind of like the President's speaking but it's coming out of my mouth. You see, normally, they try to avoid letting me talk in public."

There are some chuckles from the congregation, and a few heads nod. I guess they're the compulsive C-Span watchers who know all about the Secret Plan to Fight Inflation.

I smile at them, a bond forged, and begin to read Sam's words.

"When I was thirteen, I stood on a bimah just like this one and said, 'Today, I am a man.' I talked about being a son, a son of the commandments and a son to my parents. Afterwards, my mother pulled me aside and hugged me, and said: 'You didn't say you were a brother.' That was because my sister had died eight years before, and I considered myself an only child. But my mother told me that you never stop being a brother, and today, with my mother and father both gone, I realize that I will never stop being a son.

"Part of being Marjorie Lyman's son was to be loved. Many of you know about that love, the way she could take you into her heart and surround you with her warmth." I give Donna a little smile. She smiles back and leans against Sam. "Another part of being her son was to be told exactly what my failings were. Some of you may have experienced that, as well." I pause for the moment of laughter, and I hear Sam's voice among the many.

"But to be her son was to have held before me a model of what was just, and right, and noble. Not in a way to make me feel inferior, but in the truest sense of the word 'mentor,' a way that made me strive to be like her in every sense I could. It's because my mother was compassionate that I became an advocate for those who cannot speak for themselves." I have a sudden need to connect myself to Sam, and it's a relief to see him nodding at me, encouraging me to continue. "Every time I accomplished something positive, I measured it against my mother's definition of 'goodness.' If I could hear her voice saying 'it's good, Joshua,' then I knew it was the result of something she'd instilled in me.

"My mother and father were my cornerstones, and anything I am today is because of their nurturing, their expectations. They may not seem to be here, but they are in me - not just my father's eyes and my mother's smile, but in the many unseen facets they helped me develop." This, now, is the hard part. I take a deep breath as I prepare to say a last goodbye that is really not a goodbye at all. "If, as we believe, our souls remain on earth as long as our good works are remembered, then my mother is very much here among us, among us all."

I close the notebook, nod at the congregation, and take the slow walk back to my seat. Donna's making use of Sam's handkerchief. Sam looks at me with shining eyes, full of both tears and pride, and I quietly thank him as the rabbi asks us to stand for the Kaddish.

Donna shares her paper with me. I used to be able to read the Hebrew, but those days are far behind me and my mind is too fragmented to be of much use. So I extol and hallow God, and at the end, when we say in Hebrew what Toby said to me in Leo's office yesterday, I start to lose it.

Sam puts his arm around Donna's shoulders, reaching a little farther so that he can touch my arm, and Donna turns and puts her head on my chest so that I have to hold her, letting me cover my tears by leaning over to comfort her. Then it's over and the rabbi comes to lead me back out of the sanctuary. I blink back the last of the wetness, give Donna a hug by way of thanks, and leave with my head held high.

"That was beautifully done, Josh," Rabbi Kessler says, clasping my hand in his.

"Thank you. I don't really remember what I said, to tell the truth, but I do feel a little better having said it."

"I'll be by her apartment later this afternoon. Let your friends take care of you - it's going to be rocky for a while, especially for the girls from the library. For most of them, this is their first experience with death. They'll be looking for your mother in you. And I think they'll find her."

He's a kind man, a good man, and I manage to work up a smile when I shake his hand. Donna and Sam join me, Donna linking her arm through mine as we head back for Dave the driver and his car.

We go back up Jog Road, past the neighborhoods named after golf courses, back to the A-1-A. "Would you like to go back to the house first?" Dave asks.

"No, thanks. We should just...go. Get it over with."

"On our way, then." We pull into the driveway of one of the many condos along the beach and Dave lets us off. "Just call this number," Dave says as he hands me his card. "I can be back here ten minutes from whenever."

"Thanks." I get us buzzed into the lobby with just my name: "Josh Lyman."

The doorman greets us somberly, hat in hand. "I'm Mike. We met over Thanksgiving. Listen, I'm so very sorry about your mother. She was a terrific lady."

"Thanks. I have a key - can we go up?"

"Of course, of course. The Kleinmanns are in the apartment - she doesn't get out much, so it meant a lot to her to get everything ready."

"His name's Hermann, I remember. What's her name again?"

"Esther. I'll call and tell them you're on your way up."

We ride in peaceful quiet to the seventh floor, then work our way down a corridor. "Her apartment's at the end of the hall."

"Good thing we're not using a mezuzah for a guide to which one's hers," Sam says, motioning to the number of doors bearing the wooden box.

We get to my mother's door. Before we can knock, a tall, thin, elderly man with wisps of gray hair sticking to the top of his head opens the door. "Mike said you were coming. Come in, come in." He shakes my hand, then leans over and kisses me once on each cheek. "It's good to see you, Josh. I'm just sorry about the circumstances."

"Thanks. These are my friends, Sam Seaborn and Donna Moss."

"Hermann Kleinmann. Two 'n's' in each."

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Kleinmann," Donna says, smiling at him.

"Eh, it's Hermann, please. Come on in, Esther's in the kitchen. They're here!" he calls to his wife, who walks slowly, crookedly, obviously in a lot of pain along with her emotional distress.

"Hello, Josh," she says softly, opening her arms to me, and I hug her. She's frail, so fragile that I only embrace her loosely. It's hard to reconcile this haggard woman with the stories Mom told about how she'd been an artist, so active in her community.

Mom. Oh. Mom.

Esther lets go of me and eyes Sam. "You, I've seen on television. Smart boy, nice boy, and Josh is lucky to have you as a friend." Sam beams, submitting to a hug with his usual grace.

"And you - you're Josh's secretary?"

Oh, holy hell.

But Donna's too polite to insist on the P.C. term. Besides, even "assistant" doesn't begin to cover what she does for me. "I'm Donna Moss," she says, avoiding any job-related commentary. She smiles as she lets Esther give her a hug as well.

"Marjorie told me all about you, and she's right. Pretty, but skinny. Josh works you too hard. Look at you, nothing but skin and bones, and so pale!"

"If she's too skinny, Es, why don't you take her to the kitchen and let her try some of the kugel?" Hermann suggests, and I'm so relieved that I could hug the guy. When Esther and Donna have retreated, Hermann ushers us into the living room. "Sit, sit. We'll talk a minute, right?"

"Of course. I want to thank you for...all of this. It's a lot of work."

"It's the least we could do." Hermann pauses as if to check that his wife is out of earshot. "Esther feels so horrible. Your poor mother, just like that, and Esther was right there but she didn't know what to do."

"There was nothing she could have done," I reassure him. "The First...the doctors told us that there wasn't anything anyone could have done - the damage was just too great."

"At least it was quick. But we don't have to talk about that now." He leans back in the leather chair, the one my dad used to lounge in. It doesn't match the rattan furniture Mom bought when she moved here, but she couldn't bring herself to part with it. It's going home with me, somehow.

As if he's reading my mind, Hermann says, "I hope you don't mind, but I called a company and they'll give you an estimate on whatever you want to take home. Their card's on your mother's bureau."

"I appreciate that." A burst of nervous energy zaps me and I get up, going to the balcony door and opening it. I can see over the pool from here, and beyond that to the avenue along the waterway.

"My son calls that the 'Geezerstrasse,' the 'old guy's street,'" Hermann says over his shoulder. "You should get some air, after. Your color's not so good."

"I spend most of my time indoors." It's true - even this little exposure to humid, salty air feels alien after years spent in little offices. "It'd be good to get out for a while."

"Take Donna with you," Esther says as she shuffles back into the living room with Donna carrying tea and things on a large tray. "She's like a sheet of paper, thin and white."

"Es, leave them be," Hermann chuckles, and his wife goes to him for a kiss. I wonder if that's what my parents would've been like if they'd both lived a while longer. I wonder if there's anything like that in store for me, even for a moment.

Esther sits carefully, painfully, on the chair opposite Sam. "Before everyone gets here, I wanted to tell you what happened."

"Should we...?" Sam asks, tilting his head toward the patio door.

"No, that's fine. Stay." I'm inhaling the words as anxiety crawls around in my brain like army ants.

Esther takes a deep breath. "We were sitting on the sofa, right next to each other. Your mother was where Donna is right now. She was telling me how proud she was of you, that you held your head up high and told those mamzers - that's 'bastards,' dear," she tells Donna, "what was what. Then she just...stopped."

Donna's face goes white. I blink a few times and try to breathe. "Wait, wait, wait. You were watching the hearings?"

"She called and asked me to watch with her, so I came over, we made tea, we talked, and we waited for them to show your testimony."

"Oh, my God." I duck, running my hands over my face, ending up with my fingertips in front of my mouth. "I didn't...know..."

Sam springs out of his chair and hovers with his hands on my shoulders. Grounding me. "All we were told was that you were watching television. We didn't have any idea."

"They were grilling me, and she was watching, and she...she must've been so humiliated..." I can't find any more words.

Hermann observes us with his soft blue eyes. "It's just the opposite, actually. Marjorie told everyone in the building when you were going to be on. She said you'd take those guys to the cleaners, show them what a real mensch is. She was proud. Her last thought was of how proud she was of you, Josh, and how many people get to say that about their parents?"

I'm still processing this when there's a knock on the door. Hermann gets up to answer, but Donna takes over from this moment on, greeting people, memorizing names and relationships, coaching me through the blinding ritual she knows all too well.

There are so many people: neighbors, people from the synagogue, people she volunteered with at the theater and the library. Rabbi Kessler. The group of girls Mom had mentored comes in together, each bringing a covered dish, the specialty of her homeland. Donna glides around, taking notes about who belongs to what casserole so that the containers can go home to their rightful owners. The dining room table begins to look like a United Nations commercial, and the apartment's full of voices.

Sam watches over me. He stays by my side, shaking hands, talking politics or sports or law with equal ease and grace so that I don't have to say anything at all. Donna keeps tissues in her hand to wipe away traces of lipstick that the women leave as they kiss my cheek and leave remnants of tears on my face.

For the life of me, I can't think of anything to say. I'm just numb, operating on some primal version of auto-pilot. I thank people for their condolences, letting Donna feed me the names, grateful that our tradition lets me sit on the little hassock without having to be too participatory.

One especially lovely girl breaks away from her group and kneels in front of the footstool to hug me around the waist. She's a tiny thing, all eyes and hair, and she's crying openly. "My name's Liliana Carvajal," she manages to say between sobs. "Your mama was like my mama. I'm gonna miss her so much!"

Over Liliana's shoulder I see Donna dabbing at her eyes, leaning into Sam for support.

"I didn't want to go to the reading group. I thought it was for losers, you know? But your mother made it seem like the best place in the world to be – she cared so much. I taught her how to make Cuban bean soup and she taught me how to make those potato cakes...lat-somethings?"

"Latkes?"

She breaks into an incredible smile. "Yeah, latkes. I'm gonna go to college now and I'm gonna be a teacher and make other girls want to learn, just like your mama." She kisses me, once on each cheek. "God bless you," she whispers before disappearing into the group of girls she came with.

"That's quite a legacy, Josh," Donna murmurs from behind me. "And I bet there are a dozen other young women standing over there who feel the same way but are just too shy to tell you about it."

"I should go talk to them."

"I think that'd be nice." Her voice is neutral, the way it always is when she's trying to tell me what to do. I'm going to have to feed her a straight line.

"They'll kiss me and fawn over me."

"That's because they don't know you." She gives me her hand and I rise. My knees protest. My heart protests, too, but I know what's right. My mother taught me that.

The little knot of teenagers untangles when a few of them see me approach. Donna gives me names, some of which I couldn't pronounce to save my life, and I shake hands and get hugged and kissed until my tie almost comes off and my face is wet from their tears.

Five of the girls join hands and start to sing in Hebrew that's mangled enough to make me glad Toby's not here to roll his eyes and groan, but their voices are sweet and earnest, and I appreciate hearing them. The same words from the Kaddish, the ones Toby said. Oseh shalom... Amen.

Donna's charmed, entranced, and she slips her fingers into Sam's as they listen together. We applaud the girls at the end, they blush and bow, and as if on cue people begin to take their leave.

As much as I didn't want this, I didn't want to be alone, either. I stand at the doorway to thank everyone, then Esther leaves after giving me another kiss, and Hermann stays behind for just a moment.

"Your driver dropped off a bag with a change of clothes for the three of you. There are boxes in the guest bedroom, and more are downstairs with the doorman if you need them. We have markers and tape, and everything else we could think of, sitting in there. My number's on the note pad by the phone. Don't hesitate, Josh."

"Thank you." The enormity of what this man and his wife did for me finally hits home, and I wrap my arms around him, mindful of his frail bones, before turning around to my friends.

There's a whole apartment to pack up, to divide up, and if I'd thought the memorial service would be bad, this would be a thousand times worse. I manage to get myself into the spare room. Donna's fishing in the suitcase for my jeans and a light sweater, which she tosses to me. "Get changed. I'll use the other bathroom."

A few minutes later I'm out of my suit and in comfortable clothes, as is Sam. He's standing at the table, picking at a tray of cookies. "I don't know why I'm still hungry."

"We should eat something substantial."

"Have you seen what's in the kitchen? You could feed three countries."

"I promised you seafood, and I'll deliver on that promise." I turn around, frowning. "I have absolutely no idea what to do with any of this stuff."

"Find her papers first, hand them off to me, and I'll figure out what to keep. I've asked Donna to do the clothes - that's a tough one, you don't want to have to do that. You handle books and photographs, because only you know what's meaningful."

Thankful to have some of the responsibility taken from me, I dig into the bookshelves. Dad's law books, Mom's history and language books, some fifty years old, smelling like our old living room. I want them, crave them, and without exchanging a word Sam knows to hand me two boxes. He sits down and starts fingering through Mom's neat file box, nodding in approval as he comes across the papers he needs.

It feels like forever before Donna comes out of Mom's bedroom, her mascara pooling under her eyes. "I've boxed up the clothes and shoes and purses, Josh. Where do you want them to go?"

"Goodwill, I suppose. Maybe we should have Dave do a run for us."

"I'll take care of it." Donna disappears again. I go around the apartment, picking up a few things I remember from childhood and placing them in the living room. There's not a lot that I want, really, and that surprises me.

"That's not much," Sam comments as if reading my mind along with the papers.

"She sent me a pile of things when she sold the house. Most of what I wanted, I've already got." I set aside a blue china teapot, stretching my arms. "Thank God I didn't have to go through the house. We'd never have made it. You'd been to the house, you know what was in there."

"Yeah." He takes off his glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose. "Josh. How're you doing?"

I haven't given it a lot of thought. But being so busy has made it a little easier. "I'm better than I expected. I mean, I miss my mom and it's hard to have it sink in that she's gone, but..."

The phone rings. Sam and I both jump. I go into the kitchen and pick up the receiver. "Hello?"

"Mr. Lyman, this is Mike. A Jason Lo's here to see you."

"Thanks, send him up." I go back to Sam. "Mom's lawyer is here. You ready to talk to him?"

"I think so. It's all pretty simple and very organized."

"Comes of being married to a lawyer, I guess."

His eyes flicker away for an instant. "I guess." His mother married a lawyer, and look what happened to them.

I grimace, sorry to have brought up a painful subject, but before I can say anything there's a knock on the door.

The guy is startlingly young, and startlingly familiar. He extends his hand "Jason Lo."

"Wait...did you do work-study at Debevoise when you were in high school?"

"Yep, that's me. Your dad kept an eye on my progress in law school." Jason's face is open and he has a trustworthy smile. "One of the last things he did before taking a leave of absence - for the chemo - was to get me hired."

"He was incredibly impressed with you. And you're Mom's lawyer?"

"He specifically asked me to take care of her. In case." His smile evaporated. "I was crazy about your folks, Josh. I'm so sorry. About all of it."

"Thanks. Come in, please. Eat something before the table collapses under the weight. Sam'll join you. Sam, this is my mother's lawyer, Jason Lo."

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Seaborn."

"Sam." He leans back the way he does when he's surprised that anyone thinks of him as a superior. "I told Josh I'd take care of the particulars. Why don't we grab food and sit down in the kitchen so he doesn't have to hear a language he's forgotten how to speak?"

"Way to console the bereaved," I grunt at him, grinning. For an instant he doesn't understand that I'm kidding, then he relaxes and smiles back.

I don't know how much time passes as I box up the books I want and leave tags on the furniture that can be disposed of. The photo albums go into a box that I want to put on the plane with us. Donna emerges a few times, finally allowing Sam to bully her into taking a Coke and some cookies with her, and comes out with her hair knotted up at the back of her head and her sleeves rolled up.

"You done?"

"Yes. But there's one thing you need to look at. If you're up to it." She leads me into the bedroom. I inhale sharply, tears stinging my eyes, the familiar scents of powder and perfume flooding my senses. Donna sighs, leading me past neatly-stacked boxes of things I don't have to look at, then shows me a tattered shoe box. "These are for a little girl. But the box looks old."

I sink onto the bed. The world's gone eerily silent. "She kept them. She kept them, all these years."

Donna sits beside me. "Were they your sister's?"

"No. Well, they were...supposed to be." I can taste the ice-cream sodas we used to have when Mom took us to old Mr. Clark's shoe store.

"Josh, you don't have to talk about this. I just wanted to know what to do--"

"No, it's okay. You'll like this story. There was this guy, Mr. Clark, who owned a shoe store not far from Dad's office. Two or three times a year my mom would call and say we were coming in, and he'd pull out things he thought we'd like. That was in the days when people actually knew their customers."

"Before my time."

"Don't push your luck, Donnatella." I nudge her with my shoulder. "Anyway, the fall after Joanie...we went to get school shoes for me. And he had these set aside for Joanie because he remembered Mom had promised her 'heels' when she turned thirteen. He hadn't heard about...and my mom didn't say anything, just thanked him and bought the shoes for a daughter she'd buried five months earlier."

"Because she didn't want him to feel bad," Donna says, her voice thickening with each word. "Oh, Josh, that's so sad. So sweet."

"I'm surprised she still had them, though. She got rid of so much when she sold the house." I open the box. The tissue's decayed over the last thirty-odd years, revealing smooth, delicate black patent leather. "For when she turned thirteen. Only she never did. Turn thirteen. But Mr. Clark didn't know that."

"Josh." Donna reverently covers up the shoes and closes the box, then turns to hold me while I struggle against the latest tide of emotion. "I'll put them with the things we're mailing to you," she whispers against my temple.

I nod my thanks, unable to speak for a moment. I want ice cream. I want a maraschino cherry of my own, and I want to steal my sister's when she's not looking, then have my mom give hers away to keep the peace. I want the smell of new leather and the squeak of socks against the shoes as Joanie models them for my dad.

I move away from Donna. "Wash my face," I mutter, and I'm thankful that she doesn't move from her spot.

When I emerge from the bathroom, Sam and Jason are all over the remains of the sandwiches. From somewhere, doubtless the depths of the refrigerator, they've procured beer. Mom didn't really like it but she bought some when I was here a few weeks ago and it seems fitting that the last of the stash would go to these men.

"We're ready for you, Josh," Sam says, waving me toward the living room. "It's not going to take long."

"Okay." I'd rather have my teeth drilled, but I sit obediently on the sofa while Jason and Sam take the chairs on either side of me.

"There's less 'estate' in terms of money than when she first drew up the will, although it's still substantial," Jason says. "Your mom was giving money away hand over fist. She endowed a lot of things in your father's memory, and in your sister's. There are other assets, as well. There's insurance, of course, and anything you want from the apartment, although she's asked that the furniture go to the battered women's shelter in Delray if that's okay."

"That's good. I had no idea what to do with it, anyway."

"Sam's going to take care of filing the insurance paperwork. There's going to be some inheritance tax involved, especially when you sell the condo, I just need to warn you, but it won't be too bad."

"Ah, the death tax. Ainsley would have a field day," I say to Sam, who shoots me a dirty look in return. "Do you have the will? I'd like to read it."

"There are two. There's the first, the disposition of property - she left everything to you, Josh, so it's pretty straightforward - and there's also an ethical will."

Sam leans toward me. "Now, you see, that's really interesting. I'd never heard of that until Jason told me about it today."

"They're pretty common among Jews - a way to tell their children what they expect of them, how to live their lives. Although she was proud of you just the way you were, Josh, I want to make sure you realize that."

"I do. I've been told. Thank you."

"You'll need to change the beneficiaries on your own insurance, change your  
will, stuff like that, and Sam says he'll handle it all for you. So, other than  
saying again how terribly sorry I am, my part of this is really done." Jason  
stands, as do Sam and I. It just takes me longer.

"Thank you for coming all the way down here for this."

"It's an honor to have worked for her. Your dad made my career, you know."

Pain stabs my chest, a recollection of Dad saying something about this kid, this one kid, who was going to go all the way in law. At the time I'd thought he meant that the kid would do well in comparison to me, but now I realize what he'd seen in the teenager working in his office. And that he didn't love me any less. "You're going to make partner?"

"They say in another year, two at the outside. And it's because of your father. I was honored that he asked me to take care of family matters for your mother. It's the least I can do, to come out here and pay my respects." He shakes my hand again. "Hang in there, Josh. Don't let those Congressional cretins get to you."

It suddenly occurs to me that I haven't heard a news report in almost twelve hours, for the first day in probably fifteen years, not counting the shooting. "Is Schuller...?"

"You didn't hear?" Jason looks positively gleeful. "The President ripped him a new one. Then Toby Ziegler went on CNN and rained battery acid on the wound. Schuller won't bother you again."

"Excellent. Is someone taping the news, Sam?"

"CJ's got Zach archiving everything for you," Sam says smoothly. "Jason, it was a pleasure to meet you. Please come visit sometime - you've got a good head for politics."

"I might just do that. Thanks." Jason nods and takes his leave.

Sam walks back to the kitchen and picks a manila envelope off the table. "This is the ethical will, Josh."

"I...can't look at it now. There's still so much..."

"I know. I'll put it in my room, and you can tell me when you're ready." Sam tucks the envelope into his jacket, which is hanging neatly on a dining room chair. "We ought to rescue Donna."

"Good idea." We go into the bedroom, where Donna is marking something on a box. "You ready to take a break?"

"I think so. We're down to the small things, jewelry and a few photos. You?"

"I've found everything I was looking for. The rest can go to Goodwill or whoever." A sudden thought hits me. "Her wedding rings. Where are they?"

Donna holds up an empty bag from Bethesda Hospital. "They were in here. I put them with the rest of the jewelry. I called the house and Rosemary said she can store them in the family vault until you're ready to go home."

"Let me see." She hands the rosewood box to me and I open the lid. Donna and Sam back away to give me some privacy, Donna saying something about needing to brush her hair and Sam offering to pack up the legal papers in one of the shipping boxes.

The rings are there, and I hold them near my heart for a moment before setting them back in the box. I look through the other items - some valuable, some whose value is purely sentimental - until I find exactly what I need. I remove those two pieces and carefully slip them into my pockets. For later.


	5. That Only I Remember

We take our break, rolling the windows down so we can breathe the fresh air as Dave drives us back to the house. Sam slips him an envelope - I saw him do the same with the rabbi, earlier, and I make a mental note that I'll probably lose later, to pay him back - and instead of Dave's car we take Virginia's so that I can drive.

We don't go far, just to a seafood place up the street. We're ushered to our places by a smiling hostess. I'm reminded that my grief is just that, mine, and that the rest of the world won't be sharing it.

Donna stares at the menu. "What should I get?"

"You don't have favorites?"

"I'm a farm girl, Josh. What do I know from seafood?"

Laughing, I order stuffed flounder for her and seared tuna - charred, if possible – for myself, while Sam opts for something to do with pasta and clams. We eat our bread in silence, looking out over the ocean.

Finally, Donna speaks up. "We need to get a few more boxes, and some newspaper, so I can wrap up the fragile stuff that you want to keep. Rosemary said she'll have everything shipped to you so we won't have to worry about it."

"That's good." I drink the iced tea, grateful for the soothing coolness down my parched throat. "It was different from Mrs. Landingham's service, huh?"

"Well, they were different women. And if the President had had his way, who knows what he'd have concocted?" Sam butters a roll and passes the basket to Donna. "You should've seen him when he called me into his office. When he asked me to take care of you. I almost forgot how...how much I believed in him." He stops, holding the roll in front of his mouth as if he wants to use it to shove the words back in. "Believe. In him."

"Sam." I lower my voice, checking to make sure the tables around us are empty.  
"You're entitled to this."

"I'm not. It's not appropriate. It's not about me."

"It's about all of us," Donna says, handing me the bread basket and scraping the caraway seeds off her roll with a thumbnail. "We've been under a lot of pressure. And people do crazy things under pressure."

Her voice cracks a little on the word "crazy," and Sam's face falls as we watch her continue to denude her dinner roll of the seeds.

"She died when I was nineteen. My mother," Donna continues, looking at Sam to see if he knows the story. He nods and strokes the back of her hand, the one that's not dumping seeds into the bread plate. "It was in the fall. October fifth. And I did some stupid things that day - and on that day in other years. Because I was hurting, and afraid, and lonely, and I didn't tell anyone."

"October fifth?" I remember watching her tear that page from her diary.

She doesn't meet my eyes when she nods. "Yeah. And it can sometimes be more than a little weird for me."

Sam has no idea that she's talking about this particular year. Donna examines his face, obviously looking for a clue that he's heard about her indiscretion. When she doesn't find one she visibly relaxes. "Anyway. Don't keep hiding it away, Sam. It'll come back to haunt you in strange ways."

We stop talking as the waiter hands over our plates full of succulent seafood. For a while nothing happens besides one of us asking for salt. Donna keeps her eyes cast down on her plate, uncharacteristically silent, and for a few moments I wonder if the necklace that's been burning a hole in my pocket since I took it out of Mom's jewelry box could make her smile. But not here, not now.

Sam and I order key lime pie. Donna demurs, but I slice off a hunk of mine and insist she take it. "You're turning into Esther, you know that," she says as she lifts the fork to her lips.

"There are worse people to turn into." I watch as she savors the silky pie, and Sam watches me watching her with a gentle, amused smile on his face. 

"What's the game plan for the rest of the day?" he asks, distributing a portion of his dessert onto Donna's plate.

"I'm going to need to go back to the apartment and finish packing, then wait for the shipping guys and the people who are picking up the furniture." She must see me shudder, because she puts her hand over mine. "Josh, this isn't something you want to watch. You and Sam can just drop me off and go back to the house."

"Thanks." My throat is dry again and I take another swallow of iced tea. I fight Sam for the check, pay it, and give the kid in the parking lot five bucks for bringing my car back. We pause at the Dorchester. A couple of burly guys are removing my mother's loveseat and putting it in a truck. Donna hugs us both and gets out, letting Mike the doorman usher her into the building.

Sam gets into the front seat without a word. We drive back to the house in silence, the breeze wafting through our hair as if to blow away the sadness of the day.

Rosemary hands me a bunch of phone messages passed along by the White House, along with something she's printed out for me. "Leo McGarry sent this fax and asked me to give it to you. It's several pages."

I take the stack of paper while Sam goes upstairs to his room, saying something about catching up on paperwork of his own. I stand in the hallway and watch him ascend the stairs, then turn to the housekeeper. "Rosemary, could I trouble you for directions to the kitchen? I'd love a beer, and I bet Sam would like one, too."

"It's no trouble at all," she says, leading the way to a kitchen the size of my entire apartment. She helps me pick out a couple of promising-looking bottles, then I go upstairs and knock on Sam's door.

He's got his laptop open, looking at something with a lot of long words in it. "What's up?" I ask him, placing a beer bottle by his right hand.

"I've got your life insurance policy. You need a new beneficiary. And I've got to rewrite your will." He pauses to nod in thanks for the beer and to watch me for a moment. "How are you feeling, Josh?"

"You've asked me that already today."

"And I'm going to keep doing it. How are you feeling?"

"I'm okay. Kinda...numb, you know? But functional."

"Functional's good." Sam returns to his computer screen, evidently satisfied with my answer. "What's all the paper?"

"Fax from Leo. He's copied some of the condolence e-mails. The Vice-President. Nancy McNally. Lord Marbury. The staff at 'Capitol Beat,' about half of Congress, including Matt Skinner, and Al Caldwell." I stop when I see the personal note Leo put at the bottom. The simple words - "Take care of yourself, Josh" - break my heart all over again because they come from Leo. I have to clear my throat before I can talk again. “Caldwell's planting six trees in Israel."

"That's nice."

"It is. Nicer than I've been to some of them."

"No one keeps score at times like this, Josh. At least, no one with any decency." He makes a few more keystrokes on the laptop. "I've taken your mom's name off your insurance policy, and I'm going to do your will in a few minutes.  
Who should I--?"

"You know what to do."

He waits, not looking at me. "All of it?"

"All of it."

A beat of silence. Sam adjusts his glasses, then takes a sip from his bottle. "People will talk."

"People won't know. She won't know. Promise me, Sam, unless something happens to me, she won't know."

"Because you don't want her to feel beholden to you."

"Hopefully with the same amount of success you had getting CJ not to feel beholden to you after Rosslyn."

His eyes are enormous behind the lenses as he regards me in dismay. "CJ told you."

"I heard. People told me all sorts of stories to keep me entertained."

"You were pretty stoned on pain meds. I'm surprised you remember."

"The image of CJ rubbing coconut oil all over you isn't something you forget about easily." We share a rueful laugh and I take a swig of my beer. "Seriously, Sam. She could be compromised if this got out. It's...I just want to make sure she's taken care of."

"I understand."

"She's been through a lot - putting up with me in general, then the shooting, and now the stuff with the MS--"

"You don't have to explain it to me, Josh," Sam says mildly, as he finishes one document and clicks on another.

"I never do. Thank God." I sink down into the chair and put the beer bottle against my face for a second.

He blushes a little, never able to take a compliment. "Anyway, I'll file all this when we get back home." He types for another moment, changes a few things, and now Donnatella Moss is an heiress.

"Thanks, Sam."

He closes the laptop. "Make sure you get a good CPA, because the tax stuff's going to be a little weird for the first year or so."

"Yeah. I remember that from my dad." I finger the lump in my pocket, my heart racing strangely in my chest. "And there's something else."

Sam's putting the computer in the case, only half-listening to me. "Hmm?"

"There's something else." I pull out my father's Rolex. I place it on the table, by Sam's left arm. "When I went through Mom's stuff, I found this."

"That's...wow, that's gorgeous. You should get it appraised, just in case something--"

"Sam. No." A surge of affection races through me, calming the irrational tattoo of my heart. I push it closer to him, letting the gold touch his hand. "I want you to have it."

The glasses slide down his nose. He takes them off, cleaning them with exaggerated slowness, then puts one hand over his eyes.

It's too quiet in here. I start babbling. "If I were you - if I could write like you, or even put three words together like you - I'd tell you why this should be yours. But the only words I can find seem to be 'thank you,' and that doesn't seem like enough..."

A tear slides between Sam's fingers. It plops down next to the watch, a reminder of how tender Sam's heart is. "Josh. I don't know what to say."

"Well, wait until you put in a new battery and see if it runs before you decide to make with the thanks."

He turns his head and smiles at me, his eyes a little red-rimmed. "I'm sure it'll keep on going and going."

"Like us." I tip the chair back on two legs, swaying back and forth. "We survived so much, Sam. And we'll get past this. We'll get back to governing, and we'll run again, and we'll win."

"It won't be like last time."

He means that it won't have the idealism of the first run, and of course it wouldn't have anyway, but now, with the scandal hanging over our heads, we seem to be perched even closer to some metaphorical edge.

Last time, I had both my parents, at least up until the Illinois primary. Sam had his family intact. I hadn't been shot. Donna hadn't perjured herself to keep some slime-ball from putting her diary into evidence.

We hadn't known the President had M.S.

With a few maneuvers Sam gets the watch on his wrist, admiring it even though it's not doing anything but adorning him. His eyes are hazy and distant. "Sometimes I wonder if we even should do this. I mean, what exactly have we accomplished in our three years, Josh?"

"Not as much as we wanted. Maybe not as much as we could, if we'd tried harder. But we're just now getting good at this and I want another shot at it so bad, I can taste it." I examine Sam's face, the simmering behind his eyes, the down-turned pucker of his mouth. "I wish I could give that fire back to you."

"I am on fire," he says softly, turning away from me. He picks at something hanging from the power cord of his laptop. "Only it's like a low-grade fever more than anything else. I could get well if I could just identify the cause, but instead it's just got me run down."

I have trouble holding on to the bottle because my hands start to shake. "That's depression, my friend," I say, working to keep my voice even.

"I know," Sam sighs.

"Sam..."

"Josh." He puts his hand on my arm. My father's watch gleams against his bare skin. "We don't have to talk about this tonight. But it's nice of you to worry. It makes me worry less about you, because if you can worry about me, then you're doing better."

I squint at him. "It's not like there's a zero-sum equation for unhappiness, Sam. I can be unhappy, you can be unhappy, Donna can be unhappy--"

"Yeah, and what's that about, anyway?"

For a moment I consider telling him, just because it's the first thing he's seemed really interested in tonight, but no way on earth would I ever do that to Donna. "I honestly can't tell you, Sam. But it's not going to be a problem."

"Okay, then," he says slowly. "She knows she can talk to me, right?"

"I'm hoping that won't be necessary." Calley seems like a decent guy, for a blood-sucking Republican schmuck. Donna won't need another lawyer.

In the time-honored tradition of old friends, we don't say another word, just sit and look out the window at the evening sky. After a while we pick up our beers and head for my patio so we can have one more look at the ocean.

I wonder if Leo and the President ever do this when they have crappy days, if they just...sit, the way Sam and I do. There's something comforting about being able to retrace the events of the day in silence, but not alone. Enjoying the view.

Mom had a nice view. She was probably just coming in from watering the plants when Esther arrived, and she probably had a pot of tea ready for her friend. Mom was of the opinion that you could solve all the trauma in the world with a good cup of tea. She sends...sent...tea to Donna all the time, along with little notes Donna wouldn't let me read. "They're between us girls," Mom would say to me when I complained about the secrecy.

Anyway.

Esther was probably treated to another retelling of my virtues - Mom always saved my flaws for conversations with me - just as the Speaker called the meeting to order. And I was there, on camera, hopefully not showing the sweat that was trickling down my entire body, holding my head up and looking Bruno in the eye when I told the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

And that's what she would've seen in her last moments. Her son. The whole truth.

The way she raised me.

It's there again, the feeling of heat welling up behind my eyes, but this time I can control it, will it back, slow the relentless pounding of my heart. Sam, watching me out of the corner of his eye with all the subtlety of sixteen tons of marbles going down a metal staircase, flinches, but he doesn't move, doesn't speak, just lets me take hold of my grief and wrestle it down to something manageable.

Thank you, God, for Sam.

And for Donna, and CJ and Toby and Leo and all the rest of them, who love me even though I'm a monumental pain in the ass.

So, please take care of my mother. She'd probably like a cup of tea.

Amen.

***

When Donna joins us, we watch the late news over a cheese and fruit tray Rosemary brings up to my room. There's a great video clip of the President demanding Schuller's immediate apology for his insensitivity. My favorite line - and I can tell it was scripted by Toby - is "My wife always says one thing about autopsies: don't perform them on the living." That clip is followed by CJ's triumphant press follow-up in which she states that "Congressman Schuller has donated an undisclosed sum to a local women's shelter in memory of Dolores Landingham and Marjorie Lyman."

"I'd pay real money to have sat in on the meeting between Toby and Schuller," Sam says.

There's a brief clip of Cliff Calley saying that Congressman Schuller was speaking neither for the House Committee nor for the Republican Party. Calley looks indignant and more than a little embarrassed. Donna watches, and I watch Donna watching, and it tears me in half when I say, "He's not too bad for a Republican." I leave out the blood-sucking and schmuck observations from earlier today.

My admission earns me a smile from Donna and a confused glance from Sam, who turns off the television and stretches until we hear little cracks from his joints.

"I'm going back to my room to pack. See you in the morning."

"Good night, Sam. And thanks again for everything." We watch him amble back to his room, then Donna turns back to me.

"I'm going to call Dave, make sure he can get us early enough. Night, Josh." She gives me a quick hug and disappears before I have time to give her the necklace, or even say good night. Exhausted, drained to the last reserves of my energy, I undress, brush my teeth, and collapse into bed.

I don't really remember much after that, except for pulling the blankets up to my chin to ward off a sudden chill. I awaken to the touch of something feather-soft on my face, and opening my eyes just a little I see that it's Donna's hair brushing against my cheek.

"I'm sorry," she whispers. "I wasn't sure if you were asleep."

"Sorta. I'm foggy." I allow my eyes to open fully, taking in the sight of Donna kneeling at my bedside, leaning over me, tickling me with her spun-gold hair. "What is it?"

"Josh." Her eyes are wide, the irises almost entirely covered by her pupils as she watches me in the dim light from the bathroom. "I heard something so I came in to check on you, and you were shivering and thrashing around."

"Yeah. Probably. I was dreaming about..." I can't quite grasp a memory of it. "I think there was a dog chasing me because it thought I'd turned into a car. Or maybe a hubcap. And I can't seem to get warm for some reason."

"Mmm." She tucks the blankets around me more securely. She tips her head forward and even in the low light I can see an odd flush on her cheeks. "Josh, I know this day was terrible for you. Do you...do you need me to stay?"

I prop myself up on one elbow. "Donna, that's thoughtful. But I'm fine, really. You and Sam are across the hall, and either one of you could be here in seconds if something were to happen. Which it won't." I look down, then look up at her again. "But it was sweet of you to ask, it really was. You really ought to get some sleep, I don't want you to be run down tomorrow--"

'Josh, ssh." Her fingers go to my lips, then to the side of my face, where her palm is cool against the sleepy warmth of my cheek. "That's not..."

There's a sudden tightness in my chest and throat, and a burning sensation through my whole body.

"Josh, what I meant was...if you needed to be...you know...held...or something." Her slim frame is shivering. "If you needed me to...stay."

The air around me feels supercharged as I suck in a shallow breath. "Donna," I gasp, eyes widening, and her expression melts as she reaches for me, as she misinterprets my breathless cry of her name, as she moves to offer me the wordless comfort I'm suddenly craving more than oxygen, more than life itself.

I don't want to screw this up, can't afford to do anything to hurt her, and I reach behind my neck to clasp her hands and bring them to my lips. My body, my traitorous body, thrums with need as I try to dislodge the images of her wrapped around the very ache in my soul.

"Donnatella," I whisper, hoping my voice isn't as unsteady as the synapses in my brain. "I'm...moved. Flattered."

"But...you're saying no."

"Yes. I mean, no. I mean, I'm saying no," I explain, seeing something akin to my own combination of disappointment and relief in the endless blue of her eyes. "And it's not because I don't want to - I need to feel…alive. Connected. But I won't take advantage of your compassion."

She nods, wise woman, biting down on her lower lip, her eyes lowered. Her fingers are cold in my grasp and I warm them between my palms. "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable, Josh," she whispers. "I just...you know."

"Yeah." And I do. I know that if our positions were reversed then I'd be all but begging to demonstrate my emotions through touch rather than words. If I'd known about October fifth... "I'm just glad it was you and not, you know, Sam."

She seems to ponder that for a moment. "I see your point - although that would surely provide some very interesting visuals..."

"See?" I release her hands. "You always make me laugh. Not a lot of people can do that for me." I sit up and move toward the edge of the bed. Donna starts to stand, but I shake my head. "Stay there a second."

My jeans are draped over a chair. I fish around in the left pocket and pull out what I've saved for her. "These should be rubies," I say as I pour the necklace into her hand. "I wish they were. I wish they were diamonds. But they're...pearls."

Her hand starts to shake. She lowers her head, trembling. "Josh, they're your mother's. You can't...they should...you..."

"Sssh." I sit down next to her on the bed, retrieving the strand and putting it around her neck. It only takes a moment for me to fasten the clasp.

"You're good at that," Donna murmurs.

"Mom used to let me do this for her when she and Dad went out. But it feels different, now." Her skin is warm and incredibly soft. "This is...nicer."

"Josh?"

I move my palms to the sides of her face, holding it lightly, watching the glimmer of her eyes. "Do you have any idea...?"

"I may have a clue," she whispers. "Josh. You're right. We can't."

"I know." I lean forward, resting my forehead against hers, looking down at the pearls glistening like tears around her throat. "I just want...whatever we can have."

"Me, too." Her arms go around my waist and we just sit there, holding each other. "I'm your friend, Josh. Just like Sam."

"Well, not just like Sam."

"He's prettier than I am."

"But you're softer."

"So you're saying he really is prettier than I am."

I chuckle and hold her closer. "Is there any way for me to escape from this conversation, Donna?"

"Not as such, no."

"That's what I thought." I count to twenty as I let myself get comfortable with her, comfortable enough to tell her what's been on my mind.

"I don't belong to anyone, anymore," I whisper. "I want to belong to someone. I don't know who I am, when I'm like this."

"It's okay, Josh, it's okay."

"Everyone's gone now. There's no family. There's no one left who remembers the stories, the smells, the tastes. No one knows what it was like to get into the car and drive until my father found some obscure historical spot. No one knows how to make Mom's eggplant parmesan. There are so many things left that only I remember, and I can't tell if they're real or not anymore."

"They're real, Josh. Like the shoes. You told me about the shoes, and you should write that down, and all the other stories, too."

There's more, I want to tell her. There's an inescapable fear clawing my belly, that the three people I loved most in the world are all gone before their time, and that I fear for the ones left behind. The ones who, against all common sense, love me back.

But instead I lean against the headboard and pull Donna back with me so that her head's resting on my shoulder. I bury my face in her hair, inhaling deeply. "I'll tell you some more stories, then. You can take dictation."

"You can get stuffed." She hugs me, though, and I can feel her lips pulling up into a smile. "Tell me your stories, Josh."

And I do, far into the night, and when Sam comes to wake me the next morning he finds me propped up in bed with Donna curled up beside me, her head in my lap. She's out cold but I never really slept, just dozed fitfully now and then, wakened by sadness lapping at me like water at the edge of the beach.

"Don't wake her," I whisper. Sam nods and pulls the chair close to the bed. He strokes Donna's hair for a moment and she makes a little purring noise

Sam takes the envelope with my mother's ethical will out of his jacket pocket. He puts it on the bed, not into my hand, and looks up at me with questioning eyes. I take the envelope, open it, and begin to read.

_"My dearest Josh,_

_"There are three things I want to give you - not to make you a better person, because I love you just as you are, but to give you a better life._

_"First - love of knowledge. Yes, you have your degrees, but there is so much in life you don't know about. Art, and music, and literature, and dancing – these are so important to your spiritual life. Take time once in a while to do something outside of politics, and do it with friends._

_"Second - love of righteousness. You fight so hard, my soldier, but sometimes you prefer the battle to the cause. Use that brain, that passion, that wit, not only to prove that you're right but also to prove why you're right. Make the world see you as a leader from the heart, not just from the brain._

_"Third - love of life. Don't let what happened to Joanie and your father make you afraid to live your life to the fullest. That includes your friends – Sam and Donna, Toby and CJ, our old friend Leo, who loves you more than he can show, and the man you have the honor of calling "friend," Josiah Bartlet. You've been granted a second chance at life, a second chance at friendship. Don't be afraid to let them into your heart - your heart's as big as your mind, or even your mouth, and there's room, son. There's room for them all._

_"Remember that I loved you from the moment you came into my life, and that my love will last forever and ever. Be well, my darling son, and above all, be happy."_

"Mom," I whisper as I lean my head back to stall the new tears. Sam says nothing but he takes the letter, careful of the precious paper, and puts it back in the envelope. He sets it on top of my suitcase, keeping his back turned so that I can have a moment to regain my composure.

She knew me so well, for all that we didn't see enough of each other for the last few years. My heart's as big as my mouth, Mom? Funny. But as I watch Sam busying himself and look down to see Donna guarding me even in her sleep, I know that she was right.

Donna stirs fitfully then wakens with a start. Sam's in her line of vision, and she looks confused for a moment before she has a chance to remember where she is. She sits up, looking chagrined as Sam smiles at her. "I need to get dressed," she mumbles.

"You really don't. You're charming just as you are."

Donna ruffles his hair as she gets up and goes to her room. I rise as well, heading for the bathroom, and turn on the shower. I can move better today than yesterday, I can think more clearly. I hurt, but it's something I can work around, something that doesn't have to leave me breathless and wild-eyed in the middle of the day.

Sam's sitting on the balcony, calmly eating my breakfast, when I emerge. "Anything I can do for you before we get ready to leave?" he asks.

"Such as ensure that I keep my boyish figure?" I snatch the coffeepot from him and pour myself a cup. He passes the French toast to me with an apologetic grin.

"It's the ocean air. Makes me hungry."

"Yeah." I look out at the beach, at the water and the birds. "You got another one of those notebook things?"

"'Notebook things,' Josh?"

"Hey, I'm not a speechwriter."

"Thank God." Sam produces a small spiral notebook from his pocket, then hands me a pen to go along with it. "What're you writing?"

"I'm not sure yet. But...something." I finish my toast, throw down my napkin, and get up, Sam following close behind. We stand out in the hallway. "Donna! Hurry up!"

"What?" she asks as she opens the door. She's dressed, but her hair is still wet and she's rubbing it with a towel.

"Let's go for a walk on the beach."

"You hate the beach, Josh."

"I do not."

"You hate being outside."

"Take a walk with us, Donna. C'mon." I tilt my head and give her my most winning expression. At least I think it's my most winning expression - it's hard to tell when they're both laughing at me.

"Dave's coming at nine. We only have a few minutes."

"I don't care." The three of us troop downstairs, Sam lagging behind to instruct someone what to do with our bags, and we cross the street to stand on the seawall. There's a stairwell leading to the beach. Donna goes first, looking back at us and waving for Sam and me to catch up, and we end up wandering around by ourselves on this blustery, slightly chilly morning.

I park myself on a group of rocks - it's only slightly less comfortable than the chair in my office - and take out the notebook. Sam's holding Donna by the arm, explaining something about tides and the moon, and as I listen to the rise and fall of his voice I know exactly what I'm going to write. It won't be as lovely as something Sam wrote, or as stirring as something of Toby's, but it'll be my memories. My hopes and wishes for them. For all of us.

Dave pulls up at the curb, honking, waving his cap out the window. Donna rushes upstairs to get him to hang on while Sam comes up to me. His hands are in his pockets and the wind's making a mess of his hair.

"You done?"

"Not quite." And I won't be, not for a while. Nonetheless, I let him help me up and lead me to the car. As we head for the airport my cell phone goes off. "Josh Lyman."

"Hey, Joshua, it's CJ. How're you feeling?"

"Better." I can say it truthfully. "How'd your thing with the committee go?"

"They postponed because of Schuller and his idiocy. Where are you guys?"

"On our way to the airport. We get in around three and we need a ride."

"If I can't get away, I'll have Carol do it. Seriously, though, are you ready?"

I'm ready, I think, as I take a deep breath. I'm ready. It's not where I thought it was, once upon a time, in Connecticut, or in my mother's apartment, but right here by my side, and in the White House. Wherever my friends are.

"Leave the light on for me. I'm coming home."

***  
END  
***

Feedback would be a breath of fresh air.


End file.
